


Find a Trace

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, POV John Sheppard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 20:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13107525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: A mission gone wrong, a kidnapping, John Sheppard having some realizations.





	Find a Trace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KagekaNecavi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KagekaNecavi/gifts).



> For KagekaNecavi. Happy SGA Secret Santa!! I hope you enjoy :)

They had a rhythm, now, when they had to spend the night somewhere other than Atlantis--a comforting routine that didn’t need to be discussed. The team had been on enough missions to set up camp with a minimum of fuss, although in McKay’s case a minimum was still pretty damn much fuss.

“Move the tent that way,” said Rodney, gesturing towards the center of the clearing. “There’s a root.”

“You’ve got an entire mattress in your pack,” Ford protested. “You’re not going to feel anything under that thing.”

“It’s an orthopedic sleeping pad,” said Rodney primly, “and I need it for my back. It supports, it doesn’t cancel out giant logs.”

“Just move the damn ground cover,” John jumped down from the tree he’d hung their food packs in. “Or else we’ll never get any peace.”

Ford sighed dramatically and tugged the tarp a few inches to the right. “Better?”

Rodney ignored Ford’s question, already unfolding the tent. 

John pulled out the stakes, knocking them into the ground through the loops in the corners of the tent, while Rodney arranged the roof pole. The first few off-world, overnight missions they’d had had been weird, negotiating space and boundaries between four very different people. 

The first mission Rodney had insisted on the one-man tent, while Ford had bunked with John. Everyone had been miserable (except Teyla, who’d stayed out of it, preferring her own Athosian-made tent to the Earth ones). Ford snored--a fact he vehemently denied, but John had video evidence--and Rodney griped the entire next day about the claustrophobia that had kept him awake the entire night.

The second time they’d had a mission that lasted longer than a day, John had tried something new: a four-man tent, where Ford and his snoring could be on one side of the tent while Rodney could have the space he needed in the middle. That had been even more of a disaster. Rodney had rolled over onto Ford, getting himself kneed in the balls by a panicked Lieutenant not used to being pinned under two hundred pounds of astrophysicist, and between the snoring and the shouting, John hadn’t gotten more than an hour of sleep. Even Teyla had complained, pulling John aside. “Perhaps Aiden would be more comfortable in his own tent,” she’d said quietly. “I do not believe he would be offended, if it meant a reprieve from Rodney.”

John had agreed wholeheartedly.

So now he and Rodney shared a two-man tent, while Ford burrowed into what Rodney referred to as his canvas coffin and Teyla unfolded her springy reed-and-fur contraption. John didn’t really mind, despite the necessary bitching about it. 

Rodney was finishing up arranging the poles, muttering to himself, as John stamped the final peg into the ground. Rodney murmured a quiet  _ aha _ and the whole tent rose as one piece, the dome forming nearly above the pinned floor. Rodney stepped back, hands on his hips, and gave John a delighted grin.

John fought back a smile. They’d set this thing up fifty times over the last year, and Rodney was just as thrilled with his improvements to the basic design now as he’d been when he first rigged them. He was right to be pleased: the new poles did cut setup time down by at least a few minutes each time, but John wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying so. Rodney knew it already, anyway, because he said it every time they set up camp.

John tossed Rodney a bag of MREs, which Rodney caught smoothly, settling by the fire that Teyla had just finished starting. It crackled invitingly as Ford dragged a log over and settled on it, warming his hands.

“We will reach the Fesnet encampment by midday tomorrow,” said Teyla as Rodney opened the MRE sack and chose one for himself, then handed the back to Ford. “You must remember, they are a very proud people with strict traditions.”

“So, what, no swearing, no dancing, that sort of thing?” asked Ford. He eyed Rodney’s brownie with interest. Rodney curled his arms around his plate, glaring.

John picked at his meatloaf, warm and drowsy from the heat of the fire and Rodney’s shoulder beside his, as Teyla listed the various prohibitions the Fesnet would enforce. “We’re gonna do fine, Teyla,” he said, yawning. “Now. Bedtime, everybody. I need you chipper in the morning for our new friends.”

The fire extinguished, John settled into the tent, unrolling his sleeping bag as Rodney arranged and rearranged his sleeping pad, inflated his tiny air mattress with a hand pump, then carefully laid out his own sleeping bag and memory foam pillow. “You know,” he said casually, rolling on one elbow to face Rodney, “your pack would be a lot lighter without all that.”

“Not if I replaced it with the amount of coffee I’d need to replace the sleep I lost.” Rodney settled his pack by the door and zipped the tent shut, ducking under the electric lantern that dangled from the roof as he picked his way to the head of his makeshift bed. He flicked off the light and sat, his body a barely-there outline against the faint moonlight seeping in through the canvas of the tent.

The small space was already warming from their combined body heat as Rodney slid awkwardly into his sleeping bag, rustling around until he was comfortable stretched out on his back. “Goodnight, Major,” Rodney said quietly, voice already husky with sleep. He was a furnace in the night, John had discovered, and in the small space his warmth was as familiar as it was comfortable.

“Night, Rodney,” John replied softly, settling on his side, facing him. Rodney’s breathing slowed, dropping into soft snores. John lay awake a little while longer, until he could hear Ford’s own braying breaths from the tent next door.

#

His first thought when he awoke to hands pulling him roughly from his tent was that of  _ course _ they should have posted a watch. It didn’t matter how safe they thought the planet was: six hours of safe sleep was better than eight hours of being ambushed in your sleep.

His second thought was that there were more people in the clearing than he’d thought, three surrounding a blur of motion that was Teyla and her sticks, another two around Ford who was wildly swinging his fists as they grappled for his gun. Behind him somebody had Rodney pinned to the ground outside the tent, pressing him face-first into the dirt.

Teyla knocked her last captor down as Ford finally reached the stunner he kept in his tent and started wildly shooting the men around him. Rodney, on the other hand, was making no progress from his position in the dust.

“Rodney!” John yelled, kicking out with both legs and landing one foot in a soft belly. That foot was suddenly freed and he scrabbled towards his teammate, reaching for the man on top of Rodney’s shoulder and dragging him backwards. Rodney flopped like a fish, rolling onto his back, and made in nearly three feet before another Genii--because of  _ course _ it was the fucking Genii--shoved him back down. The man pulled out a gun and--

“Rodney!” John screamed as the gun fired, then something hit him in the side of the head and everything went dark.

The next thing John was aware of was the ground under his back, a hard line of scratchy something right under his left shoulder. He reached for it, gasping when the movement made his head throb.

“Do not move, John,” said Teyla, and he opened one eye, squinting up at her. “You have taken a blow to the head.” Her hand was pressed to her side, blood smeared across the backs of her fingers.

“Teyla? What happened?” The fight came rushing back. “Rodney!” John gasped and both eyes flew open. He groaned in pain and closed them again against the bright light of Ford’s flashlight. “What the hell was that?”

“I do not know. They came upon us in the night, and they’ve taken Rodney.”

“They shot him,” said John, bleak. “I saw them shoot him in the chest.” He opened his eyes again, more carefully this time. 

“He’s not here. They wouldn’t take him if he was dead.” Ford stood from his crouch. “We gotta get you back to the gate, Major, get the Doc to take a look at you and Teyla.”

John struggled upright. “No.”

“No?”

“No. You guys go back to the gate. I’m going to find Rodney.” He waved at Teyla’s side. “Teyla, you can’t walk around bleeding like that, not even if we get a bandage on it. You gotta see Beckett. Ford, you’re going back.”

“Major--”

“That’s an order, Lieutenant.”

Ford looked pained. “But--”

“Nope.”

“John--” tried Teyla.

“Back to the gate. Let Weir know what happened.” He stood carefully. The pounding in his head was subsiding, leaving only faint auras around the light sources and a gentle throbbing in the side of his head he assumed he’d been hit. He’d had enough concussions to be a pretty good judge of their severity, and this one wasn’t bad enough to need immediate treatment. “I’m getting the guys who got Rodney, but if they knew we were going to be here--”

“That means someone on Atlantis told them,” finish Ford. “Got it.”

“Come here,” said John, gesturing to Teyla. He pulled out a pressure bandage and wrapped it around her torso, covering the long thin cut the Genii knife had left across her side.

“Are you certain you will be all right?” asked Teyla, resting a hand on John’s bicep. 

“Yeah. I gotta find him, Teyla. I gotta get the guys who did this.”

She sighed and nodded. “Then we will return for you. And for Rodney.” She stood, and John noticed how pale she was, how tight her lips were in a drawn face. She bent down with a wince and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Teyla.” John returned Ford’s salute and watched as they shouldered their packs and started off the way they’d come the previous afternoon.

John followed the trail of the Genii. For a people who’d managed to hide their true selves from all their allies for hundreds of years, they were remarkably bad at moving through wilderness without leaving a trace. There were at least five of them, all wearing heavy boots, and their tracks were clear in the muddy ground of the forest. John walked carefully along the edge of their trail, keeping his ears pricked for sounds of people.

The trail got fresher through the day, leading him deeper and deeper into the woods as the day wore on. About an hour before sunset, John started to hear sounds up ahead, the crunch of boots and the murmur of voices. He slowed, fading further into the trees and walking towards the sources of the sounds. The Genii were setting up camp for the night, he realized as he snuck closer. He heard the sounds of tents unfurling and the glow of a fire burned on the horizon. He settled himself in the fork of a tree to wait.

A few hours past sunset, the camp was quiet. They’d sent a guard out his direction to keep watch, and the kid had managed to settle himself on a rock directly below the tree John had been waiting in. When the camp had been silent for nearly an hour, John dropped from the tree nearly silently, dropping the guard with a blow from the butt of his gun. Then he crept into the clearing.

The first soldier in the camp was easy to take out, a quick arm around his neck as he slept, tightened until he stopped struggling. The second was a little harder--she woke just as John released the body of the first and lunged for John with a yell. John knocked her knife aside, his knee catching her in the gut as she bowled him over. She had at least thirty pounds of him, now that he was doing all the running he’d been doing on missions--maybe he’d had a chance at staying upright back on Earth where he’d had access to beer and potato chips, but life on MREs had slimmed him down. He let her take him down, but as they hit the ground he used the force of the movement to roll out from under her and snatch the knife from her hand, stabbing her in the side as she grabbed his gun from its holster. She fell back, landing a few feet from him, and John had just turned towards her when a voice yelled “Stop!”

John turned, facing a young soldier with curly brown hair that fell into his eyes. The soldier raised his gun, and John was caught. He raised his hands, gun just out of reach, scrabbling through his brain for any possible way to wiggle out of the situation. The Genii’s other hand came up to cup the base of his gun, and then--

He dropped, John’s ear ringing from a blast that came from behind him.

“He took my powerbars,” said an exhausted, wavering voice, and John turned slowly, away from the dead Genii soldier. “And my canteen.”

Rodney was shaking and pale, a dirty wad of cloth wrapped around his shoulder and one arm dangling by his side. The other was clutched around a Genii weapon, still pointed at the spot where the soldier had been. Slowly, he lowered it as John stared at him. “Rodney,” whispered John, and took a careful step forward. “I thought they killed you, buddy.”

“Me too.” Rodney’s voice was small. 

John took another step closer. “They didn’t, though.”

“They wanted me to hook up a ZPM to their systems,” said Rodney. “They needed me alive for that.” He shuddered. “They told me they killed you.”

Another step, and he was within arms’ reach. Cautiously, carefully, he reached out, just to make sure Rodney was really there, really alive. “They lied. And you’re not dead either.”

“I don’t think so, no.” Rodney’s breath hitched as John’s fingers ran along the edge of the bandage.

“They shot you.”

“Yeah.” Rodney’s voice was a whisper, now.

John shuffled even closer, his feet moving without his consent. “I’m going to kill them all.”

“Okay.”

John’s hand ran up the edge of the bandage to where Rodney’s shoulder met his neck, and his fingers brushed the edge of bare skin above the collar of his jacket.

“John--” breathed Rodney.

John shivered at the sound of his name on Rodney’s lips. “Rodney.”

Rodney moved first, as John’s fingers brushed the space behind his ear, leaning forward and resting his forehead against John’s shoulder. His forehead was hot through John’s shirt, burning against his skin, and John’s other arm came up to carefully, carefully curl around Rodney’s shoulders. “Hey,” he whispered. “I got you.”

Rodney turned his face against John’s neck, warm breath sending goosebumps over John’s skin. John closed his eyes, heart pounding in his chest. He’d never been this close to Rodney, not without some major injury or pursuer to distract him. Rodney smelled of sweat and fear and blood but John didn’t care, didn’t care at all. Rodney was alive, was in his arms, was right here and all right. It was John who moved this time, moved before he even knew he was moving, hands sliding up to curl around the sides of Rodney’s head, fingers burying in his hair, and lift his face until he could press their lips together, ignoring Rodney’s shocked intake of breath.

Rodney’s lips were even warmer than the rest of his skin, soft and chapped and John tilted his head to get a better angle against them. Rodney’s good arm curled tightly around John’s waist and his slack mouth tightened, fitting against John’s with a barely audible moan that rumbled through both their chests, John shuffled even closer, his lips parting and--

“Ah!” Rodney stumbled back, pushing John away.

“Rodney, I--” Rodney was pale and gasping, and John’s heart sunk like a stone in his chest. 

“No.” Rodney shook his head, and John’s skin turned ice cold. “No, don’t--this isn’t a no to kissing, Sheppard--John--because believe me, I am very much for the kissing, it’s just--” he gestured at his shoulder and the bandage. “Mortal wound, here, not exactly up for the fondling. Although I am very up for the fondling as well, generally speaking. With you. Maybe in a bed?” He looked so hopeful, and so pathetic, that John had to smile despite the adrenaline still rushing through his veins.

“Fondling. Bed. Got it.” He slung an arm carefully around Rodney’s shoulders. “Home?”

Rodney smiled gratefully, and John noted the exhaustion in his face again, the pallor of his cheeks. “Home.”

#

Becket patted Rodney on the shoulder, bending low to say something to Rodney too quietly for John to overhear. He’d been firmly told he was not to move from his bed, but Becket was walking out of the infirmary, now, and what he didn’t see wouldn’t bother him. John slid out of the bed, padding on socked feet toward the other cot. Rodney glanced up at him, his cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink that spread down his neck and into the open vee of his hospital gown as John watched him.

John had realized something in the ride back on the jumper that had come for them soon after he’d found Rodney. He’d snuck glances at Rodney, at the curve of his cheek, at the fluffy hair at the nape of his neck that stood up, stiff with sweat, at the pink of his tongue where it darted out to wet his lips. He’d watched the shadows of his lashes where they fell against his cheeks, and the curve of his shoulders, and he’d realized that he already knew them all. He’d been watching Rodney, for who knows how long. He couldn’t remember when Rodney had gone from the slightly-annoying scientist who never stopped talking himself up to someone John liked, trusted, and apparently wanted to--well, he didn’t want to say date. That made him sound about fourteen. He didn’t want to say fuck, either, because if he was honest with himself it was a lot more than that. That man over there, the man sitting on the cot with a sheet primly draped over his legs? He was John’s best friend. He was John’s best friend, and he was someone John wanted by his side forever. And he was someone John wanted to kiss, and, yes, to do more with, too.

“Do I have something on my face?” Rodney’s blush had intensified during John’s few seconds of introspection, and John’s eyes flicked back to Rodney’s face instead of where they’d been lingering on the collar of his gown. “Or are you having a stroke?”

John resisted the urge to make a really bad innuendo. He had a feeling it wouldn’t go over all that well. He couldn’t quite hold back the smirk, though apparently, because Rodney went even redder and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, okay, Mr. Smooth. Thanks--”

John silenced him with a hand on his wrist, fingers curling around to brush the pulse point just below Rodney’s thumb. Rodney’s eyes flicked down to their hands, then back up to John’s face. “How’s the shoulder feeling?” asked John.

“Like I got shot,” said Rodney.

“Because you know, I have a bed back in my quarters. And I have a feeling you have one, too.”

Rodney was a genius. It didn’t take him long at all to decide his shoulder was actually feeling much better.


End file.
